


Viaticum

by underhill (vita_dulcedo_spes)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: hobbit-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-02-25 20:36:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13220745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vita_dulcedo_spes/pseuds/underhill
Summary: An AU in which our favorite Bagginses travel eastward before Bilbo’s disappearance. Character study - but, above all, a hobbity fic - "and that means comfort."





	1. An Unexpected Announcement

**Author's Note:**

> Happy new year to you all! Bon any nou!

Chapter 1 - An Unexpected Announcement 

THE YOUNGER BAGGINS sat in the comfortable parlor at Bag End, with one foot curled under him, and the other resting upon the books that were under the table. He was surrounded by all the comforts that one expected in a hobbit smial; but besides a generous table and a generous hearth, he also had about him all those things which particularly comforted a certain old and unusual hobbit: books in languages he knew and didn’t, maps of places he had been and had not, portraits of illustrious (and adventurous) relatives, and token items from, or so it seemed, all around Middle Earth.

He sat, in short, in the most unusual hole in all the Shire, as the late winter sun rose to greet him and to warm the rooms of Bag End as much as she could.

He did not hear the soft step come down the hall from the bedrooms and stop in the doorway, but he felt the steps come through the books on the floor, and turned to smile at his uncle standing in the door.

“Good morning, uncle.”

“Good morning, Frodo. It is long since you were up so early. I thought it was a cold hearth I was coming to.” He came over to the table, and removing a few books from the seat, took the other chair.

“In truth, Bilbo, I don’t know if I slept last night or not. Perhaps I was only dreaming, when I thought I saw the stars circling above the Pool, and twinkling in their turn as if they saw me, too.” He moved his foot from under him at last and stretched his stiff legs, and looked about him for something edible that might chance to be in arm’s reach.

“Dreaming, eh?” Bilbo looked surreptitiously at his nephew, at the titles of the books on the table, at the parchments that had been spread out, and then looked innocently out the window. “Do you know, my lad, I have been thinking –”

“A dangerous occupation for a hobbit,” said Frodo.

“– I have been _thinking,_ that perhaps it is time we put all that Elvish to good use.”

“Why, uncle, it has been put to good use. And very well are your lessons serving me. See here,” he said, picking up the book he had had in his lap all night, “’Aldanyáre.’ I was not dreaming only, last night.”

“’A History of Trees,’” said Bilbo. “Study of any language will serve you well, my lad: especially the Elven ones. But I was not referring to our Quenya lessons just now.”

Frodo furrowed his brow. After a moment’s thought he said, “Sindarin? What about breakfast?”

Bilbo laughed brightly at that. “Well. I suppose the mind obeys the stomach, after all.”

The two moved to the kitchen, where Bilbo began to build a fire (a task he liked to take upon himself) as Frodo gathered breads and jams and bits of various cheeses from the cupboards and shelves. He placed them on the table so as to look in a way he thought to be most pleasing; and as he arranged the plates and cups upon the table, he thought of the constellations he had gazed upon at night. Bilbo hummed a tune that he often hummed at campfires, and his mind wandered haply from memory to memory, seeing other fires, and hearing the songs of Dwarves.

At last they were seated upon their benches and dove into their breakfast as if they had truly been fasting. As Frodo came to the end of his coffee, he suddenly held his mug close to his chest, and with a hesitancy that was unusual in him, he said, “Uncle…Sindarin?”

Bilbo did not answer him right away, but seemed to be far off for the moment. Frodo was about to ask him if all was well when he picked up a piece of bread and said, “Sindarin, Frodo. The vernacular, everyday language of the Elves, if indeed the word ‘everyday’ can be applied to anything of their craft.”

“What are you saying, uncle?” said Frodo, trying to calm the suddenly quick beat of his heart. “What use can you be speaking of?”

“What I am saying, is,” said Bilbo, tearing his bread ever so slowly and enjoying himself now, “is that the thing about which you were asking me, and about which thing I was saying, just a while ago now, if you follow me –”

“Bilbo!”

“All right, all right, my lad. If you really want to know the fancies of an old hobbit, I was thinking that it may be time you and I visited my old friends in Rivendell.”

At this Frodo put down his mug, and stared wide-eyed at Bilbo in such a way that Bilbo began to wonder if perhaps his nephew thought he had cracked at last. “Bilbo!” he cried. “Rivendell! You and I?”

“You and I, my boy.” He had intended to ask Frodo what he thought of the idea, but wonder and excitement and joy were shining so brightly on the young hobbit’s face that it would have been redundant for Frodo to answer him with words.

Smiling back at him, Bilbo said only, “Now, when shall we go?”

 

***

 

All that day Frodo beamed with excitement. The only thought which dampened his conscious happiness was that Sam could not go with them; but although Samwise was deeply concerned for Frodo’s care during the journey, he was nevertheless too young to make such a trip, and had insisted that he would look after Bag End “’til Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo was back safe.” The knowledge that Bilbo and Frodo would be travelling together, that Bilbo would have his sword Sting, and that the pair were travelling to one of the safest places in Middle Earth was of great comfort to Sam; it did not prevent him, however, from extracting a promise from Frodo that he would write from every stop along the way where a courier could be had, and again from Rivendell (to tell him about the Elves), and likewise on the return journey.

It was in fact a long way to Rivendell from Hobbiton, and there were many preparations to be made. They had settled first on the day they were to set out: in four weeks – time for the weather to warm – on the first day of spring. Bilbo had assured Frodo that it was an auspicious day to begin a journey, and Frodo had agreed; but he sensed that behind Frodo’s outward excitement there was some part of him that was already sad to leave the Shire behind, just as the hills and woods would be beginning to blossom in the sweet profusion of spring.

 

***

 

That night the two hobbits sat up by the fire in Bilbo’s study, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea in the Special Occasion china, and munching on small cakes. Frodo was pelting his uncle with questions, and Bilbo was doing his best to stay awake. _It is easy,_ he thought, _when one is actually young, and does not just look it._

“Bilbo.”

“Eh?”

“You didn’t hear my question again. Am I tiring you?” He put down his saucer, concerned. “I’m sorry, uncle. You must be very tired. It is rather late, and I’m afraid I have wrung you out like a towel, at least on the topic of Rivendell.”

“Oh, don’t you worry yourself about that. That’s what you _must_ do. What’s the purpose of a library, if no one reads the books?” He looked down into his empty cup. “But it is late, and time for this old hobbit to get to bed.”

He rose as one mass with his blankets and laid his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, and smiling down at him he said, “Good night, my boy. I am so glad that we are doing this together.”

When he had gone, Frodo sat looking into the fire for a time, seeing many things that were far away. He pictured the city of the Elves, and his mind travelled backward in time: he recalled his conversation with Bilbo that morning, and the long night he had spent at the parlor window; memory after memory in Hobbiton came to his eye; and he thought again of the day he had come to Bag End, the first day he had stayed there, in his home, stayed not as a visitor but as a dweller.

At this memory he smiled. But he yet would not allow himself to recall what came before. He plucked idly at the blankets to distract himself, and then with a sigh he rose to collect the dishes and carry them into the kitchen.

Walking back into the study with a half pail of water, he doused the fire, gathered the blankets, and, having made certain that no embers were glowing in the hearth, went quickly and quietly to bed.


	2. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little reminder: Like much literature, this story is best read slowly, and with leisure. Enjoy and review - feedback is an author's lembas!

Chapter 2 - Old Friends

Frodo awoke in the morning under a warm nest of blankets, and for a while was loath to leave them. His excitement soon returned to him, however, and he padded about the rooms searching for Bilbo, and humming an Elvish lay which echoed along the wood paneling of the hole.

“Is that a hobbit voice I hear singing of Telperion?”

This voice was familiar to him, and very dear, and Frodo ran to follow it all the way into the warm, sunlit sitting room.

“Gandalf! What a wonderful surprise!”

The old wizard rose from his seat by the fire to greet him. “My dear Frodo, it has really been too long.” He held Frodo by the shoulders and looked down into his rosy face. “You are much changed since I saw you last; and yet,” he said, smiling, “not so changed, from what I hear.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I _mean_ , that one begins to see the Brandybuck in you,” said Gandalf, sitting back down.

“Oh, I see,” said Frodo with a laugh. “You have been hobnobbing with my uncle, while I slept.”

“A wizard does not ‘hobnob’, whatever that may be.”

“It was Bilbo’s idea, really, Gandalf.” Frodo gestured at the kettle, which was already part full, and the wizard shook his long beard. “I would never have asked him to make such a long trip, at his age,” he went on, hanging the kettle closer to the fire. He, at least, could use a cup of coffee this morning. And perhaps some of the fruit the Cottons had brought them. And the bread, from the night before last. “I’m not certain why he has decided to visit Rivendell – or at least, why now.” He made some unnecessary adjustments to the fire, and then suddenly looked brightly at his guest. “But tell me, Gandalf, how have you been? Where have you been, these three years? I am sure there is so much to tell. But I forget myself. Have you had breakfast yet?”

Gandalf had not the faintest hunger; but reminding himself where he was, and with whom he was speaking, he managed to say, “I suppose a second breakfast will cause me no harm.”

Frodo brought out fresh blackberries and cream from the larder, butter cakes (which the Hobbits called silby cakes) from the pantry, and soft bread from a covered basket at the window, and having set them about the kitchen table, he poured himself a steaming cup of exceptionally fine coffee, which happened to have been traded over the mountains from the foothills of Khand.

Gandalf ate a single berry, and studied Frodo from under his bushy brows. “I have been many places, Frodo,” he said at last. “I have even been to the high towers and falls of Rivendell. But I confess that the peace to be found here in the Shire is, in many ways, very much like the peace found in the Valley.” He looked even more intently at the young hobbit across from him as he said, “What is it that you expect you will find in Rivendell, Frodo Baggins?”

Frodo’s eyes sparkled as he thought of a humorous answer; but he said, “I hope to find old friends, there among the Good People.”

Silence was the wizard’s response; but he was satisfied, and took one of the silby cakes for himself.

The sound of the large front door swinging open interrupted their companionable silence, and they turned to see Bilbo entering Bag End weighed down with a basket of freshly cut flowers. Frodo immediately stood, saying, “Uncle, and how are the fields this lovely morning?”

Bilbo gave him a look which made him laugh even more. “Very funny, my lad. I’ve just had a short visit with Master Hamfast – about the upkeep, you know, while we’re gone. And his Daisy gave me these, ‘to have them under the hill, and not just on it’, as she put it.” He set them down and hung his coat upon its hook, and watching his nephew from the corner of his eye, said, “She is a pretty flower, herself.” He took up the basket again and held it out to Frodo.

“We don’t have to gather our flowers to see their beauty. Do we, uncle?” said Frodo, taking the basket hastily from Bilbo and absconding with it into the kitchen. “But it was kind of her to send them,” he called back.

Bilbo followed him, and he and Gandalf shared a look as Frodo quietly set the flowers into a vase with water and placed them in a pool of sun at the kitchen window. “I will tell her that you said so, my lad,” said Bilbo.

Frodo reddened. “I am sure none of the Gamgees have need of our advice, when it comes to that,” he said, and sat down.

“Well,” said Bilbo, relenting, “and what have we here? Second breakfast, Gandalf? You never condescended to make a second breakfast with me. I see that you must have a favorite Baggins, my old friend, and I don’t blame you. But, Frodo, what is this? You haven’t served our guest his coffee!”

 

***

 

After lunch Gandalf told them many tales, of the places he had been and the people he had met, and the hobbits had the chance to ask him many questions. Then he left them for a while, “to breathe a little of the Shire air, and to see what might be seen.” Frodo wandered alone into the sitting room. There he remained, taking up one of the several books which lay bookmarked about the hole, and sitting near the fire that burned lowly in the hearth.

After a while Bilbo came and found him there, no longer reading but looking into the grate. 

“You are awfully quiet since breakfast, Frodo.” He said at last. “I hope you did not mind what I said earlier, about our Daisy.”

Frodo looked at him warily. “No, I did not. But I have been wondering –” He gave a great yawn. “– I meant to ask Gandalf why he has come here now, but I could not bring myself to ask him.”

Bilbo seemed relieved by his answer. “In truth, my lad, I don’t know that myself. He is a deep old file, as, I suppose, all wizards are. I do not doubt he has his reasons, though he does not always tell me what they are; and there are times I wonder if he knows them himself.”

At that Frodo appeared to lapse back into thought. Bilbo stood for a moment, not knowing if his sitting down would intrude upon Frodo’s meditation; but, he concluded, perhaps it was the sort of meditation that needed company, and he sat down to warm his feet at the hearth.

 

***

 

Bolman Boffin sat on the stool that was widely acknowledged to be his, quite unhappy, and determined that those about him should share his mood. He held his tankard close, and huffed noisily at his neighbor.

“Now, I don’t care what anyone may say, Tanson. When the old man shows his beard, it’s trouble coming and no doubt, as anyone with a mind to remember will tell you. And I don’t welcome trouble, nor does any other hobbit: not any hobbit in his right mind, that is.”

Tan Tolbas rolled his eyes. “Nor does any _right-minded_ hobbit chatter on so about his own cousins. For shame, Bom. You have been sharing too many pints with that Sandyman fellow.”

“Who I keep company with is my own business.”

“Your hypocrisy could not be bounded by the Four Farthings.”

“Well!” said Bom, shifting on his stool. “I tell it as I see it. They’re ain’t no hypocrisy in that.”

Tan smiled at him. “No! I believe that is simply called ‘bad manners.’” He waved at the bartender. “Ei, Poll! Polgaran! Another two, if you please.” The drinks came, and the two friends settled back down.

Tan put his hands in his pockets. “Forgive me, Bom. I believe I was too sharp, just then.”

“Aye,” said Bom. “Maybe you were, and maybe you weren’t.”

Tan smiled truly this time. “Bom, you are wise as a wizard, you know. There are times I think your rough-and-tumble exterior is just a lovable mask to hide all the wisdom buried far, far beneath.”

“Har, har. And wouldn’t my wife be wishing the same!” said Bolman, and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

“Oh, Bom, not this again. What on earth do you do with your napkins, if you wipe your mouth on your sleeve?”

“What I do with my napkins is my own business,” said Bom, chuckling.

“I take back what I said about wisdom. I have never heard such foolish words.”

“Hoy, then, Tan. Do you really believe that old man has not come to go a-causing trouble again?” said Bom after a while. “He is the very same that came and magicked away poor Bilbo, so they say, in my father’s time. And everyone knows my poor cousin has never been quite the same since he came back, which it’s a marvel that he did.”

“Nay, I do not. And if he does, well – perhaps it is not the bad sort of trouble. Your cousin, or cousins, I should say, are very well off. Much better off than you, or I, or anyone else here, for that matter. I do not know about Master Baggins; but Frodo is a rare one, from what I hear. I am inclined to like him, though I do not know him.”

Bolman finished off his tankard and pushed it back. “Well, Tan, I hope you’re right about it all. We don’t need no trouble round here – leastways, not the bad sort, har har. But at any rate, I believe my cousin is getting too old for old wizard’s tricks, although he don’t look it.”

“If he is anything like you, Bom, he would probably say, ‘Who I keep company with is my own business.’”

Bolman grunted in a way that Tanson took to say “I reluctantly cede the point.” The two hobbits silently agreed that they had had their last drink for the night, and Bolman paid the bill as Tanson slid down off the stool that was widely acknowledged to be his.

“My bill tomorrow,” said Tan.

“That it certainly is,” said Bom.

The two hobbits walked out the door of the Fiddler’s Hearth, and bid each other good night and safe return in the cool sobering air. It was quiet without, and the winter stars, laid out in their seasonal array, broke through the thin clouds above them as they parted.


	3. Blossoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some editing of this chapter as of March 23rd. Further edits April 9th.

Several weeks had passed, and Gandalf had settled comfortably into the spare room at Bag End, when the grey chill of winter broke at last into a propitiatory mild morning. A hopeful golden sun was just climbing over the hills and entering in to the halls of the smial to promise an even warmer day, and the distinct, sharp scent of green things growing trickled in at the open windows of the main rooms.

Frodo had awoken early again. After a quick breakfast alone he had carefully packed food, enough for a few stout meals, into a bag. A brown muslin scarf he had wrapped loosely about his shoulders, and he pulled on his usual coat which he had unpacked that morning (not without a good deal of satisfaction) to replace the heavy winter one. He looked about himself a final time.

Ah – there was one thing he was certainly forgetting. He trotted back to the kitchen and plucked two bright apples out from a basket – one for each of his deep coat pockets.

Then he caught sight of the flowers Bilbo had brought in from down the Row, and he wavered. He had no wish to see a suggestion in them as Bilbo had done; yet he admired their simple beauty as they danced in the little breeze at the window, up and down in time with the flowers outside in Bilbo's garden. Gently he separated the smallest yellow blossom from its brothers and threaded it though his buttonhole with a smile. 'Under Hill, indeed,' he thought. 'A pretty price I shall pay for this little flower, if it means my path shall have to avoid the Row.'

Then he took up his hat and walking stick as he had done many a time before, and passed silently out of Bag End. He left the road at once and took to the still-damp fields, where he passed unheeded as a rustle among the grasses.

 

***

 

Bilbo awoke not long after Frodo had gone, and to his surprise he found Gandalf sitting at his ease in the parlour, gazing out the open window that looked down over his garden, down over the dewy meadows, and all the way down to the river where the fog still lingered in the shadows.

'Good morning!' he said.

'Indeed,' said Gandalf, putting down his pipe.

'He has gone,' said Bilbo after a moment.

'It would seem so.'

'He will be back by nightfall,' said Bilbo in what he thought was a comforting tone.

Gandalf turned to look at his friend. 'I have no need of reassurance, Bilbo. But I confess that I do worry, nonetheless,' he said, sticking his pipe back between his teeth and returning to his study of the early irises. In fact he was quite concerned. He had grown very fond of Frodo, though they had not spent much time together since they had first met not so long ago; and he found that his thought turned to the young hobbit often when he was away.

Bilbo had gone into the kitchen and returned now with the kettle. He put it on the merry little fire Gandalf had lit, and sat back in one of the room's chairs – his grandmother's fine oak chairs, which had come with his mother to Bag End. He too was thinking of his young cousin.

 _The Shire is Frodo's mother and his father._ He had this thought or intution in an unsure form inside his head, and he was even less sure that he could explain it at all to Gandalf, who was still puffing away silently at the window.

He fidgeted with something in the pocket of his waistcoat.

'He is competent in water, you know,' he said at length. Gandalf looked at him sharply, but Bilbo sat with his back to him and took no notice. Almost it seemed that he had spoken aloud to himself, or to an empty room. 'It is most remarkable. . .most remarkable. Not to mention unusual in a hobbit. No, my friend,' he said looking round at his guest with sudden certainty, 'I don't think we need to worry about _him_.'

'I did not think I would have to remind you of all people, Bilbo, that there are dangers that Frodo cannot yet imagine, and would not wish to, outside the Shire. You have told him nothing of the Dúnedain and their long watches, or of the strange rumours gathering in the East? Then he cannot know, or guess, what lies beyond the marches of the little world he has known all his life,' said Gandalf sternly, and his brow was darkened. “The lad is not my charge – and yet I wonder, I wonder if it is wise to remove the veil, so to speak.'

'My dear Gandalf,' said Bilbo almost alarmed. 'I would not take Frodo into any danger, not on my life. Not if I knew it were there. But there are none of those things that you are speaking of between here and Rivendell. Rivendell, of all places! Remove the veil! What nonsense. I wish you would not speak so.'

'Nonsense?' said Gandalf with a rising voice, and Bilbo feared for a moment that he had aroused the wizard's anger, and fell back into his chair. And indeed Gandalf seemed to grow larger, and the fire flickered in its brace. The chattering of the birds in the garden faltered. Then suddenly Gandalf was himself again, small and contemplative, yet seeming more worn than he had a moment before. The sun shone fair at the window, and Bilbo heard the birds calling to one another once again outside. 'Nonsense,' said Gandalf at last. 'I hope that it may be.'

But Bilbo was quite finished with this sort of talk. 'You are speaking strangely again, Gandalf, and it does not suit you; or, rather, it does, only not today. Look at that glorious sun!' he said with a sudden longing gaze out the window. 'All the roses will be waking from their slumber, at this rate. Pray let us speak of fair things today, old friend!'

The hobbit's change of tone struck Gandalf in his heart; and he smiled. The whispers and suggestions he had heard of evil things abroad fell to the back of his mind. It was indeed a very difficult day, after so many bleak days of cold, on which to ponder hidden malice and distant, growing evil. He had said all that he might. He said no more of it for as long as he stayed on.

 

***

 

As Bilbo and Gandalf took their breakfast in the kitchen at Bag End, Samwise Gamgee peered cautiously above the daffodils of Bagshot Row. His face was hardly noticeable among their white and yellow faces, except that they bobbed merrily in the warm breeze, and he did not. He was lying crouched and as he thought well-hidden from the Enemy, who would make him labour and learn all day, all the live-long day, or at least till second breakfast, which was much the same. Too well did Master Gamgee know the ways of the Enemy: too well for one so young! This day was warm, warm with no sign of a chill, and that could only mean--

'DA!' Sam yelled as he was suddenly lifted by two strong hands about his middle. He was brought up level with his father's stern face, and tried valiantly to make the same face in return; but he soon broke into giggles, and swung his little legs about gleefully. 'Da, how'd you ever find me?'

'Well now,' said Hamfast, setting his son down on his feet, safely away from the daffodils. 'Among all these bonny faces, yours were the only face to look so mighty dark. What kind of gardener looks down so on a day like this, I ask you? Ain't it warm enough for you, Sam?'

'Oh yes, sir,' said Sam seriously.

'Well?'

'Means there's work to be done, sir,' said Sam darkly.

'Aye. So that's it, eh? Work, and plenty of it, before next breakfast too, so we'd best be up and doing.'

They trudged back to the road and set off together up the Hill toward Bag End. Sam looked up at his father. 'How does it go, Da? Lazy once, work twice?'

' _Lazy men do double the work_ ,' said Hamfast. 'But you weren't so far off the mark, lad.'

'Da.'

'Hm?'

Here, though he had never to his recollection been able to change his father's mind once it had been settled, Sam mustered all the sweetness he could to ask a very important question. He pictured bright daisies and sunflowers and tiny little yellow roses in their tiny little bunches among their own sweet green, and said quick as he could, ' _If_ we finish all the winter cutting and the weeding and finish the pruning and spreading and tillling the east end like you said and gather all the first round of cabbages and sprouts before spring, may I please go to see the Elves with Mr. Bilbo? And the parsnips,' he added quickly, chiding himself for forgetting the roots.

His father frowned. He was not upset by Sam's request, though he might have wished the idea of travelling outside the Shire with no business besides had never entered into his master's head. For if it had not, he would have fewer people putting him to it with their prying questions, and Sam here might settle down easier to the gardening, or at least take his little curly head out of the clouds once or twice a day and give his attention to the solid earth under his feet.

He considered his son, who was still making what Hamfast considered was supposed to be an innocent face, and scratched at the hair under his broad faded hat. 'Now Sam, my lad, I've told you my answer before. You've many a spring to go before you could make such a trip; and here is where you're needed. Imagine a gardener leaving town at the knock of spring! You may be a gardener yet, my lad; and the Elves can't help you with your cabbages. No: you'll stay here, to learn while you may.'

Sam, who had known how his father would answer all along and yet had hoped against hope to be granted leave, grew disconsolate, and tears formed in his bright brown eyes against his will and fell upon his round ruddy cheeks, for he felt he had heard a certain finality in his father's tone.

Hamfast looking down at him could not bear him long and soon picked up Sam and carried him upon his shoulders, through Mr. Baggins's gate and up the path to the back door. 'Don't you fret now, my lad. When Mr. Bilbo returns, he and Mr. Frodo will have so many stories to tell you, you'll be thinking you were there with them. And what do you say to this: you may stay over for a few nights when they return, if Mr. Bilbo will allow it. You shall be the very first to hear all the grand tales, and the envy of Hobbiton, and Bywater.'

What Sam thought of this, he would not say; but he hugged his father tightly about the neck and cried with great emotion: 'Da, dear Da!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long delay! The chapters may be short, but they do get much love from the author. Please do review if you liked it (or didn't), and let me know what you liked, what I could work on, or if you'd like to see more or less of something in particular. The littlest comment is a great motivator! :D


	4. The Strange Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapters, much love.
> 
> This chapter edited May 29.
> 
> -V

Dawn was still spreading her dusky hues and the horizon still held the blush of her wakening when a young hobbit came tumbling out of the barren hazel-thicket beside the river with neither coat nor bag. He looked about himself desperately as if for some place where he might hide himself; but whether upon reflection or in a sudden fit of heedlessness, he breathed deeply, held his nose, and jumped feet-first into the cold flowing water. As he sank he felt (besides an awful shock from the cold) the river close in over his head and carry away his hat.

For a moment all was quiet but the steadily coursing water. Then out from the thicket appeared a second hobbit. Down to the bank she came on after the lad with her cheeks aflame and her brown hair bandied about. The Honeybourn flowed merrily on at her feet, cradled between grassy banks on its path to the Water, and nothing disturbed its course. The hobbit lass, finding no one, gave a cry and turning fled back up the slope.

Suddenly a few yards downstream from where she had stood a sorry brown mop broke above the water, and a sorrier face followed it. Their owner swam back to the bank and climbed with some difficulty out of the reedbed. He threw himself down at last upon the dew-soaked grass, chilled and more than miserable.

When he had caught his breath again he got up and searched for his cast off things under the yellow canopy of catkins and among the white wakening snowdrops in the hazel-brake. Then he wrung out all his clothes as best he could, dressed himself in his smallclothes, and hung the rest upon the branches of a young oak to dry if they might.

Then he laid out his velvet coat - the only dry garment remaining to him - and sat upon it with his head in his hands. 'Well, this is a fine business, and no mistake,' he said to the ground, which seemed to be shaking as he shivered. 'I don't suppose I could have done any worse if I had tried.' Then suddenly Frodo laughed, for the traitorous little flower from the Hill was there before him on the coat, faithfully wound through the second buttonhole.

There was no one to hear him out here but a pair of curious robins nesting in the oak nearby - but those two heard each laugh and every word, and remembered them for quite some time.

'So much for indifference!' said Frodo. 'But poor Daisy! I don't know what to tell her. What could I say that would not hurt her? But I suppose that is why I ran.'

Frodo pulled a little loaf and a piece of soft white cheese he had packed that morning from his bag, and there on the west bank of the Honeybourn the swiftly rising sun grew warm and dried the river from his skin as he breakfasted a second time.

***

When Frodo had eaten and at last felt dry enough to walk comfortably, or perhaps rather too uncomfortable to stay in one place, he reconsidered his plan. Before he had run into Daisy he had meant to cross Hobbiton Bridge and turn west into unfarmed meadowland. Now he was much too far east; and at any rate he had no desire to tramp back up the Hill with his hat gone and half his clothes dripping water.

He smiled to think of his neighbors' faces as he would pass them by. Frodo did not particularly care what names were come up with in Hobbiton to describe him, but he cared for Bilbo very much, and would not have it said of him that he made a poor guardian; and so when possible he refrained from what most hobbitfolk would call _odd behaviour_ , and what his cousin would call _kicking a sleeping dragon_.

But where could he go? The energy of travel had not left him despite his cold bath. He gazed hopefully up the Honeybourn, which came down from the North Moors and beyond the Bindbole Wood. He could go that way, for miles, even, without meeting a soul, perhaps all the way to Piney-wood House, and make it back to Bag End in time for supper. If he was very lucky, no one (by which he meant none of the Gamgees, whom he fancied as he had fled would all strongly dislike him within the hour) would note him returning in the dark of evening.

Northward it would be. Frodo stood beside the rushing water, and the warmth of the sun and the plink of stream upon stream, ever mingling and tumbling on, lifted his spirits greatly. He tied his waistcoat and trousers still damp onto his pack - there was not much else he could do about them - took up his walking stick again, and started upriver.

***

The noon sun had begun to beat hot upon him now, and his brow was sheen with the work of forging a path through wild hills. Frodo had rather begun to regret his plan of following the river, for none of the Shire roads bent near it so far south, and no path was evident along the banks as he had hoped. He had put all his confidence in that, and now it seemed impossible that he should reach any familiar place at all today unless he turned back upon his own path.

It was nonetheless fortunate for Frodo that he _had_ kept to the stream, for he had spent most of the morning lost in his thoughts as he wound among the towering oaks and twisting willows and storm-felled beeches; and had he not kept the silver flicker of water always on his right (though it did not occur to him) he would have been quickly lost among the numberless stalking trees.

As it was, however, the shortening of the shadows and the growling of his stomach declared lunch. Frodo walked on for a time until at last he stopped at the base of an ancient oak and surveyed its barren branches.

The lowest limbs reached down to the very earth, falling like the arms of an old man wishing constantly for rest - and they turned back upward again, in search of a consoling sun. Far above the uppermost branches broke through the canopy in a commanding spread. It was into this tree that Frodo climbed with his bag, up and up into fresher air among the heights, until he found a comfortable hollow in which he might be safely cradled as he ate.

And there he lay, heedlessly devouring his second apple and thinking pleasantly of nothing in particular, when suddenly a great buck was felled at the foot of his oak.

"Oh!" he cried with the rumble beneath him, and accidentally dropped his apple.

The wood had become strangely silent, and all that Frodo could hear was the labouring breath of the buck on the forest floor some thirty feet below him. Frodo peeking down from his perch could see the animal with its sadly heaving breast, but now he felt a peculiar dread growing in him; someone had felled a buck...where now was the hunter? He hid in the hollow as well as he could, drawing into himself and his pack, and he and the forest made no sigh.


End file.
